


we have not touched the stars

by Crystalinastar



Series: ylimaf is still family [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Reverse Batfam AU, Talia al Ghul Tries, Texting, no beta we die like robins, starts out fluffy but Beware, well in this au it would be die like [redacted] technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26824006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crystalinastar/pseuds/Crystalinastar
Summary: which brings us back / to the hero's shoulders- "Snow and Dirty Rain" by Richard SikenDamian hears from his mother for the first time in years. And now that he's secure in his own family, he doesn't mind seeking her out and adding another member to it.[Reverse Batfam AU]
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Cassandra Cain & Damian Wayne, Duke Thomas & Damian Wayne, Jonathan Kent & Damian Wayne, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Stephanie Brown & Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul & Damian Wayne
Series: ylimaf is still family [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906603
Comments: 52
Kudos: 100





	1. the gentleness that comes

It all begins with a text.

Damian would like to say he doesn’t text often. He didn’t when he had first arrived at the Manor, believing it to be for fools with nothing better to do, and even when he got off his high horse, everyone he loved lived in the Manor.

But he made friends with the Titans. Now his sleep gets interrupted by Wallace texting him about the rates at which squirrels fall. Now he must discretely check his phone during mealtimes because Xiomara and D’jinn profess their love for each other in the groupchat. Damian’s only comfort is that Duke does not fare much better, even though his friends come over every weekend to fill the halls with their chatter.

However, it isn’t one of his friends texting him that sends a chill down his spine.

It’s Mother.

She doesn’t leave her name or any alias, but who else would it be?

 _I am sorry,_ reads the text, _for everything that had been done to you without me there. I should have stopped it long ago. You seem happy now, and I dare not intrude on that. But I would like to see you, one last time, to apologize for it all. If you would rather not, I’d understand._

His fingers hover over the keyboard. His heart plays ping pong in his chest, thudding in his ears. What can he say? Should he say anything?

His thoughts about Mother are… complicated. He loves her, he thinks. But he cannot forgive her. He barely knows her; she was absent throughout the majority of his childhood. 

Damian pockets his phone. He can worry later. He has patrol tonight.

* * *

Duke glides across rooftops in highlighter yellow exuberance, but Damian merely blurs. He falls back on his namesake as he runs alongside Duke. His eyes scan the streets for crime, but his mind lingers on the text.

Eventually, Duke comes to a stop, Damian slowing down behind him. “Slow night,” Duke remarks. “Wanna go grab ice cream?” The white lenses of Duke’s domino mask seem to peer through Damian, oddly knowing for the fourteen-year-old who forgot to tell Father that Steph and Cass had gone to patrol together earlier this evening. 

(Father had worked himself into a panic wondering where they had gone, and Duke froze when he arrived downstairs, his eyes wide. “Oh, shit,” Damian heard him murmur before revealing he knew where they were and telling Father simply slipped his mind. Damian watched while he suited up, managing to suppress his snorts.)

“Why not?” Damian replies. 

They use a fire escape in an apartment to lower themselves to the ground, and they sprint to their favorite ice cream parlor, open twenty-four seven.

Damian orders a cup of rocky road; Duke chooses a cone with novelty Batgirl-themed ube ice cream with dark chocolate chips and small banana chunks. 

“So,” says Duke as they sit, “what’s up?”

“Nothing is up,” Damian says a tad quickly. “Unless you mean toxic gas fumes pumped into the air by factories that put their workers through hazardous conditions for little pay.”

Duke nibbles at his ice cream, silently staring at Damian. He gestures with his hand, an open palm one that Damian knows to mean, “No, seriously, go ahead.”

Damian sighs and reaches up to ruffle Duke’s hair. Duke squirms away, but only out of principle as he leans into the touch a moment later. He smiles. Duke may no longer be nine and adorably tiny, but he’s still Damian’s little brother. 

“How do you face people you can’t forgive?” he asks. 

Duke blinks. “You mean, like, Daryl?” Daryl Gutierrez. The self-proclaimed original Mister Bloom, though until about a year and a half ago, he was also a friend of Duke’s. Teamed up with Riddler eight months ago and held Duke’s parents hostage. Despite this, Duke still visits Daryl once a month, never unaccompanied. 

“Yes,” says Damian, spooning some of his ice cream into his mouth. 

“Well,” Duke says after a pause, pursing his lips, “I remember who he used to be. And I hope he can be like that again.” (Does Damian have _any_ fond memories of Mother?) “If he wasn’t able to talk to _anyone_ —I know isolation is pretty awful—no one _good_ , how could he _want_ to be good again? And I’m the only one willing to visit him. It’s up to me.”

“I see,” Damian says, running his tongue over his teeth to remove a nut that had gotten stuck. “That is incredibly admirable of you.”

Mother wouldn’t have been winning any mother of the year awards in the past, but… she could be trying to be better. And Damian might not be able to forgive her, but he can at least help her get there. After all, he had his own chance at redemption thanks to Father and Duke. 

Duke tilts his head. “So _why_ did you need to know?”

They hear a scream, maybe a few alleyways away. Perfect timing. Damian stands, throwing his empty ice cream cup in the trash. 

“Let’s go,” he tells Duke as Duke stuffs the rest of the cone into his mouth. Duke nods, and they’re off.

* * *

Damian lifts a cotton swab out of a jar, dousing it with rubbing alcohol. “How are you?” he says idly to Cass. 

She sits on a chair, fiddling with her hood as she awaits medical attention for the scrapes she attained while taking down a warehouse full of henchmen, much to her chagrin. She shrugs—her language skills have improved in the months she’s stayed with them, but she prefers to communicate non-verbally. She takes private ASL lessons with Duke and Damian, but often, she’ll use the language she knows best: body language.

He lowers down to her knee and dabs the cotton swab over the wound. She hisses softly.

“Apologies,” Damian hums, “but this needs to be cleaned before I can bandage you.”

Cass crosses her arms and sulks in a stunning approximation of Father. 

“Oh, don’t be like that,” he chides gently. “It’s because of this that you are able to risk your life on the field again tomorrow.” 

Wound now cleaned, Damian takes a roll of bandages and begins unwrapping. “Do you know of my mother?” he asks her. Cass was League-raised, and perhaps she’ll have her own ideas about what Damian could do. 

Cass stills and makes a small nod. She raises her hand and holds her pointer finger and thumb close together. _A little._ She cocks her head towards the light of the computer through the door. _From the files._

Contempt swirls in Damian’s chest for David Cain, who had made the perfect weapon out of Cass—someone who wouldn’t know enough to rebel but enough to attack in the direction he wanted. Pride mixes in as well, for Cass, who was able to escape him. But he thinks the emotion most relevant at the moment would be deflation. 

Damian knows what he wants to do. He knows what he hopes will happen. But, no disregard for Duke intended, he didn’t know he was giving advice to Damian about _Mother_. Father would no doubt be biased if Damian asked, and Steph and Harper only knew bits and pieces. 

Perhaps he could try to solve this from another angle.

“How about your mother?” 

Cass tentatively brings her hand to her forehead, and it comes back down with her pinky and thumb raised. It’s the sign for “Why?”

“No reason, just curious.” Cass’ eyebrows draw together, unbelieving. “If you would rather not answer, that is completely understandable, don’t worry.”

“That’s not what you want to know,” Cass signs. 

“No, it is… not.” What is it with his siblings being able to read him like a book? First Duke, and while Cass is more advantaged in that than others, her as well. “Hypothetically, if your mother wanted to apologize and reconnect, would you say yes?” Lady Shiva, or Sandra Wu-San. Deadliest hand-to-hand combatant on the planet. 

Another shrug. Her hands tremble slightly as she signs, “Maybe. I would want to try.”

And there is his answer. 

“Thank you,” he tells Cass earnestly, and begins to wrap bandages around her knee.

* * *

The green analog clock beside his bed says it is three in the morning. If he sends the text now, he can sleep away his worries and save Mother’s reply for future Damian. 

His finger inches closer. He knows he wants to say _something_ , but the specifics are blanking on him. 

It doesn’t take Damian long to give in.

_I can’t forgive you, Mother, but I’ve decided to give you the benefit of the doubt. I don’t believe I am ready to see you in person yet, but perhaps we can still communicate._

Hope warms his heart, tickling it like tiny rays of sunlight. He wants this, he realizes, and maybe he always had. 

This will go well, he’s sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll try to update this fic once a week!! feel free to come yell at me on my [tumblr](https://crystalinastar.tumblr.com)!


	2. not from the absence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talia and Damian text each other, ft. friends and family.

Damian finds Mother’s response text when he wakes.

_That is… understandable. I am glad to be in communication with you. How are your friends?_

He was giddy the night before, he recalls, but now something is seizing his chest. He exits out of their texts, and instead scrolls down to the contact name, “Baba.” He briefly considers calling Mother “Mama” but quickly dismisses it. It feels… too fond for the woman he barely knows.

 _I’m going to visit the Titans today,_ he tells Father. ( _Baba_ , he’s trying to get himself to think, but it is a recent development and habits are difficult to break. It took him a while to even consider it for more than two seconds; it feels far too unprofessional. But he's learning he doesn't have to prove himself to be loved.)

The little text bubble with three dots pops up for a few moments before it is replaced by, _Have fun._

Damian knows that at nearly eighteen, having just graduated from high school as valedictorian, he doesn’t _need_ to tell Father where he goes, but he prefers to. Just in case. 

For a second, Damian considers calling Duke, knowing the Titans are his friends as well. But Riko, Izzy, Dax, and Dre are coming over today, and who knows what kind of mischief those five will get up to. 

Damian quickly gets dressed in civilian clothing and applies a domino mask over his face. He makes a beeline for the zeta tube, and tries not to shiver as his molecules are deconstructed and reconstructed again. 

“Hey, Dami!” cheers Jon, coming into view, brightly beaming at him.

Damian returns his smile. “Hello Jon,” he says, stepping forward only to find arms wrapping themselves around him. “How is everything?”

“Oh, you know,” Jon replies, shrugging. “Chaotic. But fun.”

“Business as usual.” 

Damian walks over to Jon to stand by his side, but Jon still towers over him, but people with flight cheat. (Jon is two inches taller than Damian while standing on the ground, and nothing prepared Damian for that day he walked into the Tower and Jon was taller. By a _fraction_ of an inch, and that gap has only grown wider since. Damn Kryptonian genes.)

As they pass the kitchen, Damian grabs a date-filled cookie—maamoul—from the jar he keeps at the Tower. Amusement and annoyance both arise within him when he sees the jar is nearly empty.

He makes a mental note to restock the next time he visits the Tower. They have proved surprisingly popular, but then again, they _are_ fantastic. 

“You cheated, you _so_ cheated, I demand a rematch!”

“I didn’t use my super speed _once_ , you just suck!”

“Hey guys,” Jon calls out, leaning on the doorframe. Emiko and Wallace sit up straighter and turn around. “Guess who’s here.”

Wallace disappears from the couch and reappears in front of Damian in a flash of lightning. They stick out their hand. “Hey, so, I think I’ve finally decided on a name. Ace West, they/them pronouns, nice to meet you.”

“Damian al Ghul Wayne, he/him pronouns.” Damian takes Wallace’s— _Ace’s_ —hand and shakes it. “It’s my pleasure, Ace.”

Ace peeks out behind Damian. “Is Duke here today? Not that you’re not enough, but I wanted to reintroduce myself to both of y’all.”

“Y’all,” Emiko snickers. 

“I have y’all rights, I’m from the Midwest,” Ace shoots back.

Damian resists the urge to laugh, and instead smirks at them. “No, Duke is with his other friends today. And Ace? No one has the right to use the informal contraction of you all, not on this team.”

Ace groans and Emiko whoops.

Jon ribs him. “Don’t abuse your co-leader powers."

Damian raises his eyebrows. “Isn’t that what you are here for, my fearless co-leader? To keep me in check?”

“Right, so I say y’all _can_ say y’all as the older co-leader of this team,” Jon announces. 

“Tt. Farm boy,” Damian murmurs fondly.

“City kid.”

When Jon migrates to the couch to referee Emiko and Ace’s next Mario Kart race, Damian slips his phone out of his pocket. 

_My friends are well,_ he texts, and he presses send before he can regret it. _And yours?_

He pauses. Does Mother _have_ friends? She must, right? Nearly everyone has friends.

 _Alive,_ Mother responds swiftly, _which is the most one can hope for in this line of work._

Damian watches Emiko let out a steady stream of curses as she only barely lands in second place, her car a hair behind Ace’s. He thinks of Xiomara and D’jinn, on an impromptu date according to the sticky note on the fridge. He’s reminded of Jackson, more free to explore who he is than he ever has been. Almost every single one of his teammates crosses his mind, full of light and happiness and love.

_We can hope for life, yes, but we can also hope for living._

Duke would be proud. His senior year English teacher would be as well. Maybe he can mention thinking of the line to Duke later, he knows Duke keeps track of especially poignant ones in one of his many notebooks.

_And when did my boy get to be so wise?_

Her boy. 

Damian is hardly a boy anymore, but he remembers being one, remembers wanting to know either of his parents. He asked Grandfather why he couldn’t see his mother once. His expression darkened, and he only told Damian that Mother chose to distance herself from him. The first time he saw her was when she came for him during a raid on the League’s base, and she took him to Father. 

He is her boy.

(He’s not sure how to feel about that. But he’s starting to believe Grandfather had not told him the full story about Mother.

Which means he needs to figure it out for himself. He’s already decided to give her a chance, but he wants to know _why_. Why _everything_.  
  
And now he has a hidden agenda. This is far too easy. Maybe this is why Father has one more often than not.)

* * *

**_Mother_ **

_Now, about your suit. It does not look to be very protective. Far less armor than I would expect._

**_You_ **

_Mother, I fight just fine with my current equipment._

_It allows for further flexibility, which was necessary when I designed the costume at thirteen._

**_Mother_ **

_And you have not updated the suit since then? Seems to me it would be far too small. Although I do remember when you were even smaller, so I suppose it might dwarf you instead._

**_You_ **

_Mother!_

_My suit fits well. And I’ve no need for extra armor, I barely sustained any injuries throughout my crimefighting career._

**_Mother_ **

_Hm. Well, a mother worries, Hafid._

**_You_ **

_...Hafid?_

**_Mother_ **

_It is what I named you when you were born._

**_You_ **

_Grandfather always told me it was Ibn al Xu’ffasch._

**_Mother_ **

_Of course he did._

_That is an awful name. You are Hafid Damyanah al Ghul Wayne._

**_You_ **

_...Oh._

**_Mother_ **

_I need to go. But take care, alright?_

**_You_ **

_I will, Mother._

* * *

“Hey,” says Steph, peering over his shoulder. His nose flares in annoyance, but he remembers how nosy he was at thirteen, so he lets it slide. “Whatcha doing?”

Damian lifts his phone out of her reach. “Texting,” he replies simply.

“Texting _who_?” she presses.

“No one any longer!”

Which is technically true. Mother had to leave.

(His mind keeps echoing the little nugget of information she provided back to him. _Hafid._ Protector. Not _Ibn al Xu’ffasch_ , Son of the Bat. Grandfather wanted a legacy; Mother wanted him to protect. And to be a protector is to care for others, to be kind, and definitely not someone Grandfather would have raisd him to be.)

Steph pouts, but backs off. He watches her eyes track his phone as he tucks it away in his pocket. “Why do you want to know?”

She shrugs. “Bored. Bruce took me off a case. Got nothing to do.”

Ah. He can relate. Especially when school is out, there seems to be very little to do besides vigilante work. Getting benched or otherwise removed from crimefighting is mind-numbingly boring, and Father doesn’t realize because he busies himself at every moment possible, whether it be Batman or Wayne Enterprises work. 

Damian waves her over. “Would you like to help me with mine?”

Steph visibly brightens, flashing her dimples as she grins, and happily bounds over to Damian. “Always! Whatcha got for me?”

* * *

**_Mother_ **

_And your adopted siblings? They are well?_

**_You_ **

_Duke and Cassandra are well, yes._

_Cass, especially, appears to thrive the longer she stays with us._

**_Mother_ **

_That is good! I never liked David Cain anyways. It is better she is with you._

**_You_ **

_Why not?_

**_Mother_ **

_Why shouldn’t I? David was always careless with children. He thought of them more as potential weapons. He wouldn’t change for one of his own. And he didn’t._

**_You_ **

_Then why did you not care enough for me? [deleted]_

_Why was I taught to fight barely after I could walk? Expected to uphold a legacy I barely knew? [deleted]_

_Would you change for one of your own? [deleted]_

_That is fair. I don’t hold any particular love for the man either, I’ve seen how he affected his daughter. It’s… despicable._

**_Mother_ **

_Yes. It is._

* * *

“How are you, Baba?” Damian asks quietly, letting himself into the study with a steaming mug of tea in hand. Father sits up straighter, though that doesn’t make him look less unkempt, with his unruly hair and deep eyebags. 

He shakes his head, setting the mug down on the desk. “I know how you are. Take a break. Get some rest,” he says with the bluntness of himself five years ago. He’s learned tact since, but this is not a situation that calls for it. “You are doing terribly.”

Father blinks slowly. He takes a sip from the mug. “But these murders…”

“How long has it been since you last slept?” 

Father pauses, counting it out on his fingers. “Not that long,” he replies shortly. Another sip.

Damian gives him a brittle smile. “You didn’t notice the tranquilizers in the tea, World’s Greatest Detective. We can handle this case. Stephanie was already on it, if you hadn’t recalled.”

“It’s dangerous,” says Father with a weak frown. 

“And not all of us are children anymore,” Damian counters. “Let us handle it.” Something crawls inside his chest, small and sickly. _Can you handle it?_ But he brushes it aside; he knows his place in this family, and he’s sure of his own skills, his own goodness. 

Father didn’t have a chance to answer, collapsing on his desk as the tranquilizers did their job.

* * *

**_You_ ** ****

_I have to ask._

_Was Father always this…_

**_Mother_ **

_Stupid, foolhardy, reckless, awful at taking care of himself? That is only what first comes to mind._

**_You_ **

_Yes._

**_Mother_ **

_He was. It’s part of why I hid you from him._

**_You_ **

_...Mother? If you don’t mind me asking… what happened?_

_Because you seem so… kind. Motherly._

_But you were not present when I grew up, and Grandfather let me believe many things I think now are untrue._

**_Mother_ **

_You must know I never wanted this for you. But that doesn’t make up for it._

_I intended to hide you from your father and grandfather. I had my doubts about your father’s parenting abilities, I worried about how it would affect Batman. So I faked a miscarriage._

_Except your grandfather found out, and he had you grown and aged to two in an artificial womb. Likely so you would have capabilities to learn to fight as soon as you were born._

_But I stole you, tried to hide you with an elderly Western couple. You were found. And your grandfath_

**_You_ **

_Mother?_

_Mother, are you there??_

_Are you okay?_

_Hello???_

* * *

Damian chews the inside of his cheek. It’s a bad habit, he knows, one he formed while he was still with the League. His other fidgets were prohibited, but Grandfather couldn’t see him do this. It stays with him. 

Mother still hasn’t answered. It’s been an hour and a half. Why hasn’t she?

Mother is a capable woman, one of the finest fighters in the League. She should be fine. 

He stares at the case file in an attempt to take his mind off of Mother. Seven murders, ten days, no fingerprints or anything else that would allude to a shared identity, except.

The blade. They’re the same in every case. It might seem a standard blade, if not for the gleaming golden hilts that curve downwards into a unique ‘x’ shape. Like a coat of arms. It’s familiar, it tickles the back of his mind, but he can’t quite figure it out.

He opens his laptop and begins the painstaking process of cross-referencing the blade with others from past cases, when someone knocks on his door. 

“Dami!” calls Duke. “Can I come in?”

“Go ahead,” Damian calls back, still filtering through hundreds of blades. 

Duke lets himself in and plops down onto the bed next to Damian. “Got any plans for tomorrow?” he asks. 

Damian’s brow furrows. Tomorrow? He glances at the date. Tomorrow is… oh. 

“Aren’t you usually in charge of that?”

Duke gently ribs him. “Yeah, but you’re turning eighteen! You’ll be an adult. You can do adult things. Thought I’d plan around it just in case.”

“Nothing I couldn’t do before.”

“Legally,” Duke says, rolling his eyes. He’s been doing that more lately. For a moment, Damian envisions a grumpy Duke, wearing all dark clothing, locking himself in his room with sarcastic comebacks to everything Damian or Father says. His lips curve upwards; it could never happen. Not to the ball of sunshine Damian has known since Duke was nine. 

“Hmm,” Damian muses. “Well, I suppose I could run away to California now. Stay with the Titans full-time. And Father can’t file a missing persons case.”

He looks up to see Duke’s face, but Duke suddenly quiets, staring at Damian. “However, I would never do that,” Damian reassures. “California is too sunny for my tastes.”

Duke’s shoulders sag—in relief, Damian supposes. He then flashes a grin at Damian, and it’s almost convincing. “So, no plans?”  
  
“None that I can recall, no,” says Damian. He cocks his head. “Would you like to tell me what _you’re_ planning?”

“You know the drill,” Duke replies cheerfully. “No spoilers.”

Damian sighs, albeit fondly. “One of these birthdays I will not be caught off-guard. I will figure out what you’re planning.” Highly unlikely, even if Damian wanted to. Duke is a talented coordinator in his own right. He takes after Father in the leadership department. Damian _is_ a leader, but only by chance—he and Jon were the oldest on the team but neither wanted the full responsibility. He fully intends to pass the torch to Duke when Duke is older.

Besides, with the development of Duke’s meta powers, he is nigh unstoppable. Sometimes Damian catches a flash of golden-white light nearby but he is always surprised. It’s part of the fun, he was assured his first year, and he’s come to enjoy it in the years since.

“Hey, wait.” Duke swipes the case file in Damian’s lap. “Are you _working_ on birthday eve?”

“Tt.” Damian reaches for the file but Duke leans backwards, holding it out of reach. He is growing frighteningly tall. “It’s the eve of my birthday; I should decide what I’d like to do with it.”

“Aw, c’mon, Damiiiii,” Duke pleads with wide eyes, and _fuck_ , that should not work as well as it does. 

“Fine,” Damian relents. “But I’m working on it the day after my birthday.”

Duke is already taking the case file away, downstairs, a pleased smile sitting on his face. “Mmkay, Dami.”

Damian watches Duke leave, pausing for a moment to wonder what to do. 

Then, his phone vibrates.

* * *

**_Mother_ **

_I am alright, Hafid. But I have a proposition._

**_You_ **

_Mother! I am glad you are alright._

_What is the proposition?_

**_Mother_ **

_Would you like to come see me? I can explain much easier in person._

**_You_ **

_I… you’ve already offered._

**_Mother_ **

_I understand if you are conflicted. Just because I’m explaining doesn’t excuse any of it, I know. I will be in Victoria, Canada on August 10 at 5pm PST if you would like to come, however. I’ll send you my coordinates an hour prior._

_I can still answer through text if need be. You do not have to come if you don’t want to. I am just… selfish, sometimes._

_Enjoy your birthday tomorrow._

**_You_ **

_I will think about it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i've included in this chapter a few references to damian being arab—the maamoul, externally calling bruce baba (as well as thinking about calling talia mama), his name hafid meaning protector (which i liked better than its other meaning, grandson, because. well), and also damyanah which i found in @arabian-batboy's arab damian hcs tag. i, however, am not arab so if there's an error somewhere, please lmk! 
> 
> also! talia will always be a good mom, or at least trying to be, in my canon! dc can meet me in the pit! she may be morally ambiguous but if she had the choice she would not let damian have the childhood he did! 
> 
> and if you enjoyed this, feel free to mosey on down to my [tumblr](https://crystalinastar.tumblr.com) and yell at me perhaps!


	3. of violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian's birthday and the day after.

“Happy birthday!” Duke yells in his face, as is customary for Damian’s birthday, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t any less loud. “C’mon, we’ve got breakfast.”

“Hush,” Damian groans, blinking groggily. “The official celebration isn’t even today.”

Duke and Damian share their official birthday celebration, since Duke’s is only three days after Damian’s. They’ve done it for years. Damian used to despise having another child around to split Father’s attention—and his approval—but now, he can’t imagine anyone else he’d rather share it with. 

“You say that _every year_ ,” Duke whines. “And you know what’s coming. Come _on_.”

While the rest of the day might be a surprise, birthday mealtimes are always the same. Favorite foods and the entire family present. This year, that means a few more people.

Cullen is the first to meet his eyes, his face breaking out in a grin. He waves Damian over. Harper and Duke greet each other similarly, and they go to find their places.

Cass sits by Father’s side, with Steph at hers chattering away and making large gestures. She glances up when he sits across the table from her, in between Cullen and Duke, her eyes lighting up. “Happy birthday,” she signs. 

“Happy birthday,” Father echoes out loud, his tone warm. The bags under his eyes have shrunk, Damian notes with pride. 

The platters in front of him smell absolutely delectable, with freshly baked pita bread stacked high, hummus and fool for dipping, omelettes, falafel, labneh, waffles (not usually part of the birthday breakfast, but Steph got him hooked earlier this year), and more. A mug of aromatic chai tea rests beside his plate. 

“Thank you,” Damian replies, a smile tugging at his face, though he also directs it towards Alfred, next to Father. 

This is his family. They’re all here. They’re rough and growing but Damian’s heart swells whenever he thinks about any of them. It took him a long time to be able to think it, but he knows. He loves them. 

And yet… 

Damian eyes an empty seat, one of many in the long dining table, but empty nonetheless. 

Not everyone in his family is here.

* * *

This year, Duke is taking them all out for paintball, and he advises Damian to wear inexpensive but thick clothing. Everyone else, now that Damian looks, are already wearing sweatshirts, sweatpants, and in Harper’s case, one of her leather jackets that father replaces whenever she asks. 

Only Duke and Father dare to wear plain thin long-sleeved shirts.

“Take your own advice,” Damian remarks, raising his eyebrows.

Duke gives Damian a wicked grin. “Please. With my powers? You all are toast.”

“Hmm. That’s cheating.”

“Not by my rules,” Duke singsongs.

When they arrive at the course, they are each given a paintball gun. Damian feels it up in his hand, lifting it up and down. It’s filled to the brim with neon green paintballs, and he experimentally throws one to the ground, smearing it with his boot for good measure. Still just as bright. 

They will all go home looking ridiculous, he notices. He can hear Alfred’s sigh already. 

They draw straws to decide their teams; he, Duke, Cullen, and Steph are on one team, Father, Cass, and Harper on the other. He absently notes that if Mother were here they’d have even teams.

That thought is quickly washed away when he realizes that Cass and Father are on the same team, and it’s not Damian’s. Oh _no_. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he declares to Duke. “It’s not cheating, actually.”

Duke smirks at him but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he and Damian work to come up with a plan. 

They have the forest side of the field. Damian can stay behind with Cullen, protecting him and sniping the other team in the process. Duke and Steph will charge forward, sneaking through the trees, with Duke using his meta ability to make sure no one will get the jump on them.

But then the round starts and Damian finds that long-distance shots are difficult with an amateur paintball gun. Difficult, but not impossible. After about two minutes, he’s able to pinpoint Harper as she flees from the spray of paint. He aims and he fires, barely striking her in the back. 

She yelps, but retreats. One down. Two to go. 

A sharp stinging sensation, but multiplied by ten, hits his side, and he whirls around to see Cass smirking and holding a paintball gun to his left. She fires once more at a helpless Cullen, who holds his hands up in surrender, who only gets shot in his boots. Lucky. 

Damain flings his arms up in the air; his more dramatic teammates must be rubbing off on him. Regardless, as he passes, he squeezes Cass’ shoulder and she beams at him. 

He sticks to the chain link fence when walking to the exit. Duke spots him and his eyes grow wide. “It was Cass,” Damian mouths, and gestures for Duke to keep going. It’s too late when Duke nods. 

Steph’s scream pierces the air, and she freezes for a moment. Enough time for Duke to get the jump on Father, shooting him in the leg. Father grimaces; he and Steph join Damian and Cullen at the fence. 

Now it’s one versus one. 

Duke looks around wildly, holding up his paintball gun in self-defense. He backs into a tree and jumps, narrowly avoiding a neon green paint splatter. Damian watches with baited breath. _Come on, Duke,_ he thinks. _Win this for us._

Duke runs out into the field, in search of Cass, when… shit.

He gets shot in the neck and topples over, one hand raised in defeat. Cass emerges from behind a tree, sly as ever. 

“Woohoo!” Steph cheers. “You get ‘em, Cass!”

Damian elbows Steph. She doesn’t even look bothered, shrugging. “C’mon, I already lost. Might as well root for her.”

“We were partners!” retorts Duke, indignant, marching up to them. “I can’t believe you’ve done this.”

Steph blows him a raspberry.

They play a few more rounds, and Cass ends up losing thrice. (One of those rounds is the round immediately after, where Duke and Damian collaborate to take Cass out early in the game. It is incredibly satisfying.) They laugh together, recounting small moments on the battlefield all the way home. 

“So?” Duke questions once they’re in clean clothing again. “How was it?”

Damian lets Duke lean against him, staring at the bright skyline. “You’ve outdone yourself this year. As you do every year.” When it’s just them, together like this, Damian could close his eyes and pretend they’re twelve and nine again, them learning how to be brothers when they never any before. 

But he likes where he is now. He has Duke for a brother, Cass for a sister, Cullen and Harper and Steph and the Titans as friends. Father. He wouldn’t change that; he likes his family full. 

_I will be in Victoria, Canada on August 10 at 5pm PST if you would like to come._

“We gotta get going,” says Duke, standing up. “Alfred’s almost done with dinner. I can smell the kabsa from here.”  
  
His family is not quite full.

He doesn’t want to go, he thinks. Talking with Mother over text is one thing, but going to see her in person is another. What would Father think? Or Duke, or anyone else?

(Is that the only reason he’s apprehensive?)

* * *

After the dinner comes presents. 

Nine boxes sit in front of him, with varying sizes and colors with names written on tags. Damian grins at the one that says, “From: Leslie,” in a doctor’s handwriting. 

“She’s busy,” says Harper apologetically. “But she told me to tell you happy birthday!”

“Tell her I say thank you.” Damian tears the wrapping paper off the box, to reveal an ornate wooden box, small animals carved into the smooth mahogany. He opens it up to find a lock and key, and a note from Leslie that he tucks away to read later. 

Cullen and Harper got him an art kit, a painting set with oil paints. They split it into two boxes, an easel and a canvas in one, and the set in the other. Steph gives him a T-shirt that reads, “I Survived Gotham And All I Got Was This Lousy Shirt.” He laughs. Cass’ present is a small coupon for free hugs and favors plus a lovely golden cuff that Father must have helped her pick out.

He thanks all of them in turn, and for some reason, this family is full of huggers, so they all embrace him and wish him a joyful birthday once more. Damian can’t stop smiling even if he wants to (which he doesn’t). Warmth burns in his chest from the laughter and cheer. The sheer happiness makes him feel more alive than ever. 

Alfred hands him his gift, a longer, thinner rectangular shape. Damian opens it gingerly—it yields him an envelope, and within that envelope, two cards. “A letter and my cookie recipe, Master Damian,” Alfred tells him. Damian’s eyes widen. “I need to pass it on to _someone_ , and you are far better in the kitchen than your father. An adequate present for your coming of age, I hope.”

This time, Damian initiates the hug. When did he grow taller than Alfred? “Thank you,” he mutters. “I love you.” He doesn’t say it nearly often enough.

Alfred wears a serene smile when they let go. “Likewise.”

“Me next,” Duke says, pushing past Bruce to hold out his present. 

When he opens it, Damian covers his mouth with a hand to hide his gasp, however quiet it may be. Duke had compiled pieces of artwork Damian created and written poetry for them.   
  
“You know at the beginning of the summer when I asked if I could see any of your stuff? Yeah. Yeah, I thought I should… I don’t know if it’s any good but…”

He flips through the pages. In a rough colored sketch of Damian’s bedroom at night, Duke wrote a short poem that finished with, “someone i love taught me / that darkness is just another part of you / the same way we live in the light / we can live in darkness too.” His fingers brushed over the page. 

“I love it,” whispers Damian, tackling Duke. 

“Hey,” Duke complains, underneath Damian. “That’s my job. You’re not supposed to be the cuddly and affectionate one.”

“Too bad. You are the younger brother, you have no authority here.”

“Yeah, well, I was _first_ , beat that!”

“Boys,” Father interrupts.

Duke backs up, putting on his angelic teacher’s pet smile that consistently gets him out of trouble with teachers and elder superheroes alike. It does not work with Father, though Duke tries. “Sorry,” he chirps. 

“Here, son,” says Father, handing him a box, more plainly wrapped than the others. After, he rests his hand on Damian’s shoulder. “Happy birthday. I’m proud of you, Damian. Always was. You grew up to be a fine young man.” He leans in conspiratorially and murmurs, “Open this in private.”

Damian blinks rapidly, his eyes warming with unshed tears. “Thank you, Father. I will. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

They spend more time out there, a hazy August evening lit by friends and family. He’s in no hurry to get back to his room, Duke and Cass clinging to him the entire way. However, he wishes them sweet dreams, and locks himself in his own quarters.

He runs his thumb over Leslie’s note.

_Hello Damian. Happy birthday._

_Are you aware that Alfred did not have sole guardianship of your father after your parents died? I was also named in their will to have partial custody should anything happen to them. I know Thomas and Martha would be proud of you; you are everything they ever wanted in grandchildren—you’re intelligent. Brave. Kind. Protective._

He lives up to his name. Hafid, that is. He grips the paper tighter, crinkling it.

_You grew up to be such a wonderful young man. And, if you are comfortable with it, I am proud to call you my grandson as well._

_Love,  
_ _Leslie_

Heart in his throat, Damian slips the note inside one of his bedside drawers, one he uses to keep positive things to look at on gloomier days.

Now, for Father’s present. When Damian shakes the small box, he hears clinking. Metal, he thinks. 

It’s a key, dully gleaming in his lamplit room. A piece of paper reads an address. 

It couldn’t be. 

It _is_. 

_You’re an adult now, Damian_ , is written on the other side of the paper. _While I would love for you to stay here, you can choose to live on your own. I have for years now, but I trust that whatever decisions you make—now and hereafter—will be the right ones._

The glow of his phone reminds him—it’s midnight. The tenth of August, the proposed meetup day. It takes at least six hours to cross the country, likely longer to get to Canada. 

He inhales and exhales, watching his shadow’s chest rise and fall. 

He makes a decision.

* * *

“Morning, Bruce,” Duke yawns, letting his legs direct him to his seat, across from Bruce and Cass, next to…

Wait. 

“Where’s Damian?” he asks, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. 

Bruce eyes the seat at Duke’s side before shrugging. A tiny shrug, but Duke’s learned to pick up on these things. He’s worried, but he’s trying not to let it bother him. “I gave him an apartment last night,” he reveals, his tone lax. “He might have thought to go check it out.”

“Okay,” responds Duke, mulling it over. It makes sense, but something about that is… off to him. 

He shakes his head. He’s just attached. He’s lived with Damian almost as long as he’s lived without at this point. Nodding to himself, he decides to go bother Damian in his new apartment after breakfast.

Duke gets up to open the curtains—they’d been sitting in relative darkness, and as comforting as it may be, they had to let the sunlight in sometime.

* * *

Damian startles awake as the plane comes to a stop, groaning softly. 

He grabs his suitcase from overhead compartment, shuffling along with the other passengers into Victoria International Airport. Despite disliking the bitterness of coffee, he buys a cup for himself. It’s not even _good_ coffee, it’s absolutely shitty, but it does the job well enough. 

When he begins the drive to his hotel, he checks his phone. Bad driving habit, he knows, but he doesn’t care—he got partially taught by the League of Assassins, and Father, Batman himself, finished his driving education. He’ll be fine.

No texts or calls yet. It’s about noon here, which is nine back home, so understandable. Damian had written a note and put it on his desk before he left (he didn’t wish to wake anyone up with notifications, and Bats sleep lightly), they know where he is. 

Thirty minutes later, he has a key to his room. He drops off his suitcase, but chooses to go explore rather than wait. 

Victoria is beautiful, there is no doubt. The sky is clear and brilliantly blue, horses trot by on the streets (a tourist attraction he has interest in seeing before leaving), and he passes a brightly colored garden. Further back is a collection of of old buildings, likely with preserved for the history behind them. 

He stands in it for a moment, savoring salty ocean air, when he hears a small gasp. 

“I… did not expect you this early, Hafid.”

He whirls around, his face carefully going blank as he wonders what to say. Damian recognizes Mother immediately. How could he not? She’s Talia al Ghul, and even if she weren’t his mother, he spends enough time in the Batcomputer’s files to spot her. His gut twists at the sight.

She appears as if she’s being discreet, with sunglasses and modest clothing, a sweater and jeans. Nothing expensive or eye-catching. Even when she stole him away from the League and brought him to Father’s doorstep, she had hardly a care of what she wore, and it was easily memorable, so this is curious.

“I wanted to see the city,” Damian replies quietly. “Would you like to talk about… everything now, or…?”

Mother scans his face. “As long as you aren’t busy.”

“I’m not.”

“Then let’s go.”

She takes hold of his wrist and directs him to a boardwalk with many food stalls, a sign declaring it’s, “Fisherman’s Wharf.” He sits at one of the farther off tables, though few people are there. 

“So,” says Mother, folding her hands together on the table, “what do you want to know?”

Damian barks out a bitter laugh, more bitter than he intends. “What _don’t_ I want to know, Mother? I… I think you are better than Father or Grandfather give you credit for, but I have many questions. Why…?” And his words get caught in his tightened throat. He sucks in a breath and grips the edge of the table.

He watches Mother swallow hard. “After I attempted to get you out, to let you have a normal life away from all of it… your grandfather was not very fond of me. I tried to see you, I did. But I had made myself an enemy of the League.

“I let Father have what he wanted, just for the chance of seeing you, perhaps gaining his favor enough to sway him into letting you off your training… then we found ourselves in the middle of a raid, and I knew what I had to do.” Take him and run, Damian’s mind fills in. She shrugs, tense. “Your grandfather has not forgiven me since, so I thought it better to stay away.”

Mother looks at him, really looks at him, and he’s taken aback by the ferocity of her green eyes. They’re the same as Grandfather’s, and brighter in person. It comes from the Lazarus Pit, he knows, and an uneasy feeling rises in his stomach. 

She breaks her gaze. “Hafid, I…” Mother’s pupils dilate and her posture grows stiff. She reaches out to cup his cheek. “Hafid, I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better. And I know that can never be forgiven. But, right now, my son? _Run_.”

The uneasy feeling continues upwards to his chest and explodes as Damian turns around. Five people, all staring at them, all standing in fighting positions, holding… shit. _Shit_. Assassins.

He maneuvers himself to be by Mother’s side. She scowls at him. “Did you not hear me? Run away! This doesn’t involve you!”

“It involved me the moment it involved my mother,” he challenges, daring to look her dead in the eyes.

After a moment, she nods, and they fly into action. Damian’s Shadow instincts kick in, and he surveys the area for civilians. None, not even in the food stalls. Odd, but not entirely unexpected now that he knows what’s going on. 

An assassin swings at him with a scimitar, and Damian steps to the side. In the brief moment the assassin is unguarded, he launches as ferocious of a kick as he can muster. 

The assassin doubles over. Damian grabs the assassin’s head and slams it against his knee. 

And the assassin is out cold. 

He has a moment before the next assassin comes for him, so he unclips a mini utility belt underneath his shirt. _Always be prepared_ , Father warns in his head.

Damian glances towards Mother, where she’s fending off three of the assassins at once. Two more are coming for him, and… hold on. There were five, and he took out one. _More_ assassins are here.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

How could his first adult decision go so wrong? 

Anxiety bubbles where he thought he’d already silenced it. He ignores it to fight the two incoming assassins. After this part of the fight is done, he needs to get out his communicator and make sure Father gets here as quickly as possible—he’s not sure how long the two of them will last. 

* * *

Only two hours earlier, Duke incessantly rings the doorbell to Damian’s new apartment. He finds nothing, and so, returns home, worry nibbling away his heart. 

“I didn’t find him!” calls Duke as he enters the Manor. Cass is out with Steph today, but Bruce should have heard him. He runs upstairs to Bruce’s study.

On the way, he sees the slightly opened door leading to Damian’s bedroom. He frowns. Damian usually closes it completely. 

He barges in, and that’s when he catches sight of a piece of paper on Damian’s desk, circled by a halo of lamplight. Unfolding it quickly, he sprints the rest of the way to Bruce’s study.

“Bruce!” he says, waving the note in the air. “You’re gonna wanna see this.”

* * *

More assassins come before Damian has the chance to send out an alert. He presses down on it now, before they overwhelm him. He sees his mother to the side of him, with wide eyes. 

“Hafid!” she bites out, countering an assassin’s strike. “Get out! It’s—!” An assassin clocks her, sending her tumbling to the ground.

His brows furrow, and in the time it takes for him to contemplate what the end of her sentence would be, an assassin holds a wet cloth to his nose. For all the resources they have in the League of Assassins, chloroform remains reliable.

He almost wants to laugh, because they’re here for _him_ , not Mother.

 _Oh_ , he realizes all of a sudden, swaying. Falling.

_It’s a trap._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am...... not sorry. 
> 
> fun note: the thing about leslie having partial custody of bruce is canon! it's one of my favorite little background headcanons, and i've definitely made her more motherly than in canon here because uhhh i'm a sucker for found family and good parents/grandparents make me cry
> 
> also, like the previous chapter, i've thrown in a few references to damian being arab! just food this time, but i know my internet search doesn't cover any of it at length, so if i've messed anything up, please please let me know!
> 
> anyways feel free to yell at me over at my [tumblr](https://crystalinastar.tumblr.com)! and if you yell now, i bet you can't wait for the next couple chapters :)


	4. but despite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talia, Bruce, and Duke search for Damian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: somewhat graphic violence, it's canon-typical and there's only two fairly brief instances, but i thought i should warn y'all just in case!

Duke’s heart sinks in his chest, right past his ribcage, and plops into his stomach by the time they reach Damian’s distress signal. Talia al Ghul—one of _the_ Assassins from the League of Assassins; one of the ones whose face and file he had to memorize—stands above several unconscious bodies, that seem to be lowercase ‘a’ assassins from the very same League. Her green eyes are scathing and cold, and she narrows them as they approach.

Damian is nowhere to be seen.

They’re too late. 

He curses himself. If only he’d seen the note sooner.

“Where is he?” Bruce demands, his interrogation growl out in full force.

And, for a moment, Talia al Ghul falters. Softens. (Though maybe Duke is seeing it wrong, the sun got in his eyes.) “I don’t know,” Talia admits. “They ambushed us. I thought they were here for me. I was wrong.”

Bruce pauses. He signals to Duke; Duke surveys the area around them with his future vision and ghost vision. Future vision reveals nothing. Ghost vision finds Damian, slumped with a rag over his nose, being dragged away as Talia fights off assassins dressed in plain clothes, screaming. He nods imperceptibly.

“Why would they be here for you?” questions Bruce.

Talia laughs a mirthless laugh. “You really have no idea, do you, _Detective_?” She spits out the word. “I risked _everything_ for our son. I lost everything.”

“Then you’ll help us find him,” Duke cuts in. “You care that much for him, right? So if we gather all our resources, it’ll be easier than searching alone.”

The adults turn to him, but he stands still, crossing his arms. “You two can talk later. Damian takes priority.”

“You’re right,” Talia responds, stepping forward. “We should.” She raises her eyebrows. “Quite a son you’ve raised.”

“Oh, I’m not…” Duke begins to say. When he realizes Bruce doesn’t say anything to deny it, he trails off. He’d been planning to ask Bruce for months now, the moment was never right—but focus on Damian now. Figure that out later.

His heart continues bobbing in his stomach, being eaten away by the acids. Metaphorically. He hopes. They _will_ find Damian. They have to.

“So. What do we do?”

* * *

Bruce watches Talia as they gather in a makeshift safehouse: Talia’s hotel room. She swears she already debugged the room, but they gather in the bathroom and turn on the shower and the sink just in case. She isn’t what he remembers, but the last time he saw her was six years ago, when she dropped off Damian. The last time he really looked at her was fourteen years ago, when they were both seventeen and swept away by each other.

Her shoulders and back sag when she thinks they aren’t looking deep enough to notice. The bags under her eyes are covered with concealer several shades away from her skin tone. The way she holds herself is less confident, more wary.

Which is why he believes Talia when she says she’s been on the run, that she’s earned the ire of her own father. 

Duke glances back at him to make sure, but Bruce remains firm in his assessment. He takes in her eyes, Lazarus Pit green, but easily mistaken for regular, human green. They’re wide while her jaw is set and she leans against the counter faux-casually. Worried, yes. And something else. 

“You think it’s because of you,” he tries, and Talia stiffens. 

“Of course I do,” she snaps. “This is the sort of petty revenge my father is liable to do. Take my son away from me, because I took his precious _heir_ away from him. If I had not reached out to Hafid—Damian in the first place, this would never have happened.”

“If I had looked into his absence this morning, I would have gotten here earlier,” Bruce points out gently. “Or if I hadn’t overworked myself, Damian would have felt more comfortable to open up to me about contacting you. We’re all a little bit at fault here. But let’s not dwell on it.” Words of advice for Talia, Duke (who’d wallowed in his own guilt as they drove here), and himself. 

(A lump rests in his throat regardless. He leaves it be.)

Talia exhales, a short, trembling thing. “You were the one who brought it up.”

“She’s right,” Duke chimes in, ever maintaining his cheerful presence. 

Bruce ignores them. “Does the League have a base nearby?”

Talia shakes her head. “I chose to meet here because they didn’t.”

“Wait,” says Duke, flattening out a map on the counter. “If they needed somewhere to take Damian, somewhere nearby, without drawing _too_ much attention—the Parliament buildings are right there. That’s a pretty huge space.”

“They could have also tossed him in a truck and driven him away,” Talia replies. 

“It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

Talia hesitates. “What if we split up? You two check the Parliament buildings, I stay here and figure out where else they could have gone.”

There isn’t a better alternative, so Bruce agrees.

* * *

The Parliament buildings are stunningly, dustily empty. Still, Duke and Bruce walk through them, with Duke’s eyes lighting up the otherwise dull interior. 

One room has footsteps in it, a trace of dirt here and there. Gentle sunlight pours out through a window. Bruce opens his belt to analyze the dirt, while Duke unleashes his ghost vision. Nothing. Come _on_! There’s got to be something, some clue, so he pushes, he rewinds his ghost vision. 

Eureka. Damian, still unconscious but now bound with rope, gets carried out of the building. Duke squints and tries to read the men carrying him, their lips. He can’t. He rewinds again, tries again. He knows he can see light in non-human ways, and what is sound but another form of energy? His hands curl into fists, his nails digging into his palms. 

_For Damian,_ he thinks as his heart rate rises. 

His ears pop. 

“Careful with that one,” says one assassin. “He beat ten of us at once when he was eleven.”

“Time with the Bat dulled his skills, hasn’t it?”

“Let’s just get him to the warehouse as soon as possible just in case.”

And the figures fade, gold swimming at the edges of his normal vision. He tastes a familiar metallic tang. 

“Lark,” Bruce says, rushing over. “Your nose is bleeding. What did you…?”

Duke shakes off the remnants of the vision. “Heard them. They’re going to a warehouse, maybe they’re there already, maybe they’re…”

He faints.

* * *

Damian nearly chokes as he wakes to the sensation of a gag in his mouth. Tears pinprick his eyes as he bites down on it. He makes an attempt at keeping his breathing even; _I’m captured_ , is the first thing to spring to mind, and if he wants a chance of getting out, he needs to stay calm.

It’s dark, he knows that much. And he’s missing his belt and all other gear. Silhouettes in the corner move closer to him upon realizing he’s awake. 

“Oh, good,” says one, tossing a blade in his hands like it’s a ball. Even in the darkness, Damian can make out how pristine the blade is, how it gleams. “Time for the fun part.”

“You’re sadistic,” the other one mutters, but moves forward with him anyways. 

Well, no point in pretending he’s asleep. He thrashes in his bindings, his fingers—still clumsy and numb, but gaining deftness by the second—undoing the knot around his hands, bit by bit. When the two men, the assassins, are about five feet away from him and it hasn’t yet worked, he tries a subtler approach.

“What is your intent?” he snarls, in his best imitation of Father’s growl. He manages to untie one of the knots. Several more to go.

“To follow the Demon Head’s orders,” the one without a blade replies. 

The one with the blade holds it up, and Damian’s eyes widen at the sight of it. While mostly obscured by the man’s hand, he can see the end of the hilt, two golden embellishments crossing to make an ‘x.’ The blade from the case he had been working on only two days ago.

“It’s pretty,” remarks the blade-bearer, “but I think this assignment needs a more personal touch.”

He throws the blade into the hands of the other one, who catches it while rolling his eyes. The no longer a blade-bearer picks up something on the floor, something dull and rusty that had surely already been here because Grandfather would never tolerate a weapon being that uncared for. 

A crowbar. 

Damian swallows, his breaths growing shallow and quick. The knots become easier to undo the more of them he unties. His hands are free, time to undo the rest of the knots. In the meantime, he uses his chair to scoot back. 

“Scared?” mocks the crowbar assassin. “Thought the heir to the Demon wasn’t supposed to get scared.”

One, two knots undone, three more to go. “I’m _not_ his heir. And if that is what this is about—scaring me into submission, that is laughable. An Al Ghul Wayne doesn’t give in.” And Father and Duke and the rest of his family would find him before it came to that. He’s sure of it.

Three, four… The assassins walk closer, the crowbar one grinning lecherously. “Everyone gives into death eventually.” Something about that strikes Damian as off, but he doesn’t have the time to think about it, his fingers pulling away the last of the rope. 

Five!

He stands, a tad uncertain on his own feet, and turns to run. A blade, the blade, pierces his back, sending shockwaves of pain through his spine. He yells and falls. 

The new blade-bearer’s feet make themselves known to Damian—it must be the blade-bearer’s, because the blade gets plucked out of Damian’s back. _Don’t show weakness_ , he thinks to himself fiercely, biting back a cry. 

It’s all for naught in the end when the crowbar slams down on Damian’s stomach, and Damian gasps. Coughs. Fuck. 

His family would find him. They would rescue him. They’re coming for him. 

_Please._

* * *

“A warehouse, northeast of here, forty-five miles away,” Talia reads, staring at the screen. “It has been abandoned for years, but was recently bought by Head Incorporated.” Her nose wrinkles. “A small startup company? That’s a shoddy cover.”

Bruce’s face twists. “How did I not notice?” he mumbles to himself. “I should have been…” he was resting, because he’d had several all-nighters and Damian took his most recent case off his hands. A case where several murders were linked through a single blade. 

“Shit,” he says, rushing to the computer. He pulls up the file for the case. “Talia, is this familiar to you?”

Talia’s face falls seeing the photos of the blades. “They were standard issue blades for the League, an old model. Used after you left and before Damian was born. The decorations proved inefficient, so it was scrapped. So to be used here…”

“It was a distraction,” Bruce deduces. “Damnit! This must have been planned more than we thought it was, something more long-term.”

“One would think it wasn’t just petty revenge, but why else…?” 

Bruce doesn’t hear what else Talia says, instead turning to Duke, slowly blinking himself awake. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, as much as I can be, and—wait, you didn’t go yet?”

“The soil samples only just got analyzed.” He helps Duke up. “Come. We’re going to find your brother.” He glances to Talia.

Her brows are furrowed, and she waves them off, something sharp in her voice. “You two go. I’ll stay behind.”

They all nod to each other.

And they’re off.

* * *

“They’re coming for me,” Damian reassures himself between strikes. He inhales sharply as the blade-bearer carves something into his shoulder, his cries reduced to mere whimpers. “They’re coming.”

His blood pools on the floor, and he rests in it. His clothing must be soaked through by now. A gruesome sight for Father to find. He hopes Duke and Cass and Steph won’t have to see it; they’ve seen so much already, but family is different.

“They’re not coming,” crows the talkative one. “Say your goodbyes now.”

He hears a crackle, and he whips his head to the side to find an pack of dynamite being lighted. The timer on it reads ten minutes. “Five minutes, then we’re out,” grunts the blade-bearer. 

“You’re no fun.”

“This isn’t about fun, it’s about honor.”

Not much honor in this, but Damian knows people will justify nearly anything to themselves. He pushes himself off the ground, only to be struck down again. “They’re coming,” he swears to himself. They _will_. 

* * *

Duke scrambles to his feet as they skid to a stop. The warehouse is smaller than he imagined, but that doesn’t matter, he just needs to _go_. 

Bruce runs beside him, but Duke is faster, he knows he’s faster. He pushes for an extra burst of speed.

His skin crawls, he’s only got about forty feet left to run, so he obliges his gut. Glances into the future, just by a few seconds. Nothing too straining.

He stumbles and collapses. Pure, hot white fills his vision, fire licking the sides of his arms. 

“Lark!” Bruce calls.

Duke stands up and runs, he _runs_ , he can’t be too late, he has to be there, Damian cannot, Damian will _not_ —

And then his vision is proven true. 

Duke is thrown back by the force of the explosion, but he barely notices that. Only one person is on his mind.

“ _DAMIAN!_ ” he screams, again and again until his throat feels raw and red, against the deafening explosion. (His suit comes with ear protection against this kind of stuff, but he still can’t hear himself over the roar of it.) 

Tears spill onto his cheeks, running down to his chin. “No, _no_ ,” he sobs once the explosion has faded. He falls onto his knees.

Bruce runs into the debris, and when he comes back, he holds up a body, too charred to be recognizable, but… Duke knows Damian’s height and build and _fuck_ , it’s him. His heart thunders in his ears, and his fingers feel numb. if he had the choice, he would give that beating heart to Damian without a second thought.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Damian just turned eighteen. He was supposed to live his life, as an adult, and Duke was supposed to have his brother. 

Instead, Damian died, and Duke never got to say goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters left to go!! :DDD
> 
> anyways, with the posting of this chapter, i have fulfilled my character death box on [my found family bingo card](https://crystalinastar.tumblr.com/post/627303408592945152/my-bingo-card-for-the-found-family-bingo-this), and as a bonus, a whumptober prompt!! day 28, "goodbye"
> 
> about duke's powers extending to sound, i know it's bullshit but it's Canon. granted, it's only when amplified by nth metal, but i've decided that nth metal can only amplify the capabilities that are already there. hence why he can do it, but with drawbacks
> 
> oh! also. victoria, bc, canada was used because i've been there, but y'know, it's been years, so all the stuff about the inside of the parliament buildings? probably wrong. i didn't remember if tourists were allowed inside or not but since i didn't go inside, i opted for no
> 
> ily all thanks for sticking around, tune in next week for a short chapter <3 <3 <3


	5. the abundance of it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian's final thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is dedicated to my friend leap, whose birthday is today!! ily leap, happy birthday!! go check her out at [wingsdingsandpurplethings on tumblr](https://wingsdingsandpurplethings.tumblr.com) and [lindenrosetps on ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindenrosetps/pseuds/lindenrosetps)!!

_Five Minutes Earlier_

The assassins exit the building quickly but quietly, and somehow that’s worse. There’s no jeering, just filing out like good little soldiers. Damian coughs into the ground; he winces at the pain that blooms in his ribs and the tiny blood droplets scattered beneath him. 

That could have been him, he thinks, pulling himself towards the bomb. Him following Ra’s’ every order. His left arm and his legs are all out of commission, and every frail breath hurts, but he might as well try. Try to disarm it; maybe it’s a simpler bomb.

He’s glad he didn’t end up like them.

Damian can’t imagine what that must have been like. More painstaking years of childhood ripped away, just so he could become Ra’s’ pawn. After all, what else could family mean to someone like Grandfather, someone who could live forever?

Mortality keeps them in check. It keeps things in perspective. 

He thinks now that his family will be too late. How far could they get in less than five minutes?

So it’s up to him to determine his own fate. Damian lets out a cry as stray debris on the floor scrapes across his side wounds. He must keep going. He must. Because he wants to live, the ache of that is as strong as a star burning bright in the sky. 

(Stars extinguish. Stars die. Stars burn bright then burn out.)

Maybe, in the end, this is all a test. Maybe the universe has pulled his strings, just to see if he could survive. Maybe, it has decided he deserves to, because he’s trying now, isn’t he?

If he survives—and when did he make the mental switch to _if_ instead of _when_ —he’s going to hug everyone he knows forever. He laughs at the thought, his laugh turning into a cough. They would never believe it. Jon might think Damian had gotten possessed. 

But these excruciating moments, without his family by his side… he can’t imagine losing any of them. Father—Baba—Duke, Cass, Steph, Cullen, Harper, Jon, the rest of the Titans, even _Mother_ , they’re all pieces of him. Cliche, he knows, but losing even just one of them hurts more fiercely than any of his injuries. 

His fingers grasp the bomb. It… it’s…

Hard, cold, metal. Impenetrable except for when it explodes. Damian’s eyes widen just a fraction then collapse into tears. 

He rolls on his back. One minute and eleven seconds left, says the bomb. Not enough time to do anything. 

Damian lets himself sob, loud wails that echo in this warehouse. What’s the point, hiding it? He’s not going to survive. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers between sobs. “ _I’m sorry_.”

The heroes are supposed to save the day. The heroes are supposed to live to see another one. 

Not this time. 

How _unfair_. Damian’s lip curls into a sneer. He had only just turned eighteen, he has a family and friends and he’s happier than he’s ever been. Everything had been going well. 

(Perhaps the universe chose this because he didn’t deserve happiness, not with his past. Not with how he continues to fail against its expectations.

He doesn’t even get to see the stars before he dies. He knows they’re out there. But he’s greeted with a metal sky that creaks and is about to be blown up.)

The bomb begins to beep. Ten seconds, Damian’s sure.

He wouldn’t be here if not for Mother, yet he can’t find it within him to resent her. He can’t forgive her, not yet, not with his childhood, maybe not ever. But they were working towards something else. 

His family and friends will miss him, he thinks. He hopes. But Damian wouldn’t wish that grief upon any of them, just one more mistake he’s made. What a mess. 

Heat creeps up his arms. This is it. His heart beats frantically inside his chest, working overtime, but that can’t stop what’s coming. Damian stares at where the stars should be, tries to somehow send his heart out into the world, return the pieces of him that are pieces of others. 

Several faces flash through his mind. Steph and her constant quips, Cass and her hugs, Jon and his eyes filled with hope, Duke and his crooked grin, Father and his prideful words, Mother and the strength in her form.

“I love—”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nor are we forgiven.


	6. you deserved a soft epilogue, my love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talia is not in the business of sacrificing family members, much less letting them stay dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha the chapter title, get it? he deserveD but this is not a soft epilogue

Talia stares at herself in the mirror after Bruce and his son, his other one, leave. His son was silent, but his eyes were rimmed with red. Understandable. Talia’s close to shedding tears as well. Her chest quivers at the thought of what she is about to do.

But she must do it. 

Her son must be given another chance at life; he will not be taken away from her after they just got to reconnect. 

She lifts her chin. Walk with confidence was always an unspoken lesson, something she had to learn to survive with the League. She sneers at her reflection, as if it is her father. 

Her eyes flash green.

* * *

She hates this. She despises doing this. It feels dishonorable—and if her father taught her only one thing, it would be honor. But he taught her many things, and making sacrifices for the mission, that’s something he taught her. He would sacrifice her for the mission, she thinks, sometimes. He has.

Talia is not in the business of sacrificing family members, much less letting them stay dead.

She arrives in Gotham just in time, the Waynes are quick with their funeral plans. Leans across the table, offers someone a stack of cash, says to them, “I’ll do this job, take this and go.”

Hafid—Damian—will have a closed casket funeral, she hears, the sight of his body too grisly for the children that will be attending it. Easier for her, however. She would hate to have to dig, and there’s a much better chance of successful revival the fresher the death is.

Her throat tightens when her phone vibrates. She should get rid of it, clearly her father has the upper hand (for now) and likely could track it, but… 

_ Will you be at the funeral?  _ Bruce asks.

She huffs a little to herself. This  _ mess _ began because she held onto this phone. 

_ No. I apologize but I have other things to attend to. _

Talia presses her lips together and drops the phone on the ground, grinds into it with her heel, and deposits it in the garbage bin. 

* * *

The trip to Nanda Parbat is… difficult. Talia wants to kick herself a little for giving in. But sometimes she thinks about what she has folded up in her carry-on duffle, and she has to breathe for a moment. Her eyes fog up regardless as she rests her head against the plane window. 

She’s dooming him to this. This life. She’ll get him out as soon as she can, of course, but the Pit has unforeseen consequences. Bruce calls it Pit Madness. Talia defines it as reinforcing your worst traits and insecurities, and trying to bury your best ones.

She blinks away the green haze in her vision. 

_ What if I fail?  _ she idly wonders but banishes the thought. She cannot fail. She will not.

Leaning back into her seat, she chews her cheek. It’s a bad habit that has resurfaced in the past few hours. She never thought she would return willingly, but here she is.

Just like her father wants.

* * *

“Father,” Talia greets, a bite to her voice more cutting than the frostbite she endured getting here.

The duffle bag lands on the ground with a thud. “You know what I’m here for.”

Her father smiles. Talia’s hand waits on the scimitar by her hip. “That I do, daughter. Come this way.”

Talia unzips the duffle bag and hoists her son onto her shoulders, watching her father walk into the corridor, beckoning for her to follow.

“I will not return to you,” Talia calls out, with no patience for her father’s smiles. “Nor will he.”   
  
A while ago, she thought that she could stay with her father, but he hurt her son. He hurt her son and she didn’t get to see her son grow up and she loves her father, truly. But she can’t forgive him. Besides, her father’s intentions became clear when she was made an enemy of the League. 

Her father hums. “We’ll see.”

Her gaze lingers on the weapons hung in the hall as they pass. Pictures, as well. Nanda Parbat is steeped in tradition, except one man has been carrying them on all this time. 

She could change that.

She swallows hard, stepping into a room. She will have to bide her time.

The Lazarus Pit looks just like she remembers it, glowing and bubbling ominously in a dimly lit room. The one that resurrected her is several countries away, dormant and out of use. This is her father’s personal Pit, able to be reused multiple times instead of one because the leylines in this area are some of the strongest, emitting the most magical energy. It will run out, she’s sure, but for now, it’s the only one with enough power to revive someone who’s been dead for this long.

Her father knows this. That’s why he waited here for her. Bastard.

Talia lowers her son into the Pit, caressing his once-bruised cheek. Her son slips inside, unable to voice complaints, and she allows herself to inhale and exhale now that she’s here. It’s done. No turning back now. 

A moment passes. Then another. Then several more. Talia’s hyper aware of her heartbeat, thundering in her ears. This will work. It has to.

Then Hafid sits up and gasps, coughing. She laughs. Sobs. Relief crashes against her like a wave; there’s no difference, really. She falls to her knees, to see her son’s face, freshly healed. 

His eyes open, blazing and acid-green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew, what a journey!! this is officially my first finished multichap. if you would like to see more from this au, so would i, so feel free to ask me about it or request a ficlet from it on [my tumblr](https://crystalinastar.tumblr.com)!! 
> 
> yes, this fic made retcons, already i know. minor ones, dw, and i'll go back and edit sunlit and shadowed.... tomorrow
> 
> thank you guys for sticking with me. seriously. it means a lot, and i love you all so much. <3 <3 <3
> 
> (also, whoever caught that last week's end chapter notes referenced the ending of the phrase "we have not touched the stars" gets a cookie!! virtual, because i am a mess in the kitchen)


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